Porcelain dish decorated in overglaze enamels and gilding with a 'gallant' scene, China, Qing dynasty, ca. 1750
“This dish, produced in Jingdezhen in southern China and decorated in Canton, belongs to a group of Chinese export wares characterised by erotic or 'gallant' subjects. The particular scene on this example shows a reclining naked woman being viewed by a voyeur or 'peeping Tom' dressed as Harlequin. Erotic subjects were part of the Chinese tradition, but this theme can only be found on porcelain exported to Europe.”
(via V&A)
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tagged for a last line written by @aria-i-adagio (ty!) and... there has been very little writing. But, because 'tis the season, and because the second round eds will be continuing for another three million years until I get time to finish them, here's a whole ass excerpt from the Valentine's lottery chapter of The Fountain and the Nightjar (title? title!! ...title...?) which is one of the latest to get _FINAL-final(2)_FINALFINAL appended to the scriv subdoc heading. Yay!
My brain is fried today so I forget who's actively doing these rn, but tagging with love and no pressure @faux-fires, @dreadfutures and @highwayphantoms. If you would like to consider yourself tagged, please do so. :)
For context: I'm admitting it now... TFANT is basically Georgian noir. This chapter takes place in the story's equivalent of a smoky jazz club (lol), i.e. a molly house run by an old dandy and his toyboy abolitionist husband. A Valentine's lottery was basically like secret Santa, but for V-Day gifts and/or 'dates.' Also, if you need the historical primer, molly houses were the gay bars of their time (c.1700-1820-ish) but more 'lowkey local institution' than 'hot 'n' cruisey clubland.' Similarly, 'maiden names' were queer nicknames or alter egos, closer to C20th Polari/camp slang than, say, a femme persona associated exclusively with drag (or allied to gender identity). I pulled a lot from primary sources, so not only is much of the book based on real(ish) people's lives, I've also got a... uh. lot. of research material on C18th queer culture. It is interesting as all hell, so I have to cut myself off before I digress.
Behold, my protagonist, thrust into that most chilling of scenarios: a social event. Gasp.
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The exchange of gifts began, Julius intoning the names and matching the lottery couples together. Sukey Hackabout, a heavy, round-cheeked man of about five and thirty, was Valentine to Kingston Sally, part-time barman at the Green Dragon Inn, who had a faint Jamaican accent and a sweetly gentle smile. He presented Sukey with a painted paper fan, to much delight, and ‘Cupid’ held up his arms in triumph at the evening’s first official kiss.
“There, now!” Julius cried, taking the hands of his next victims. “Who braves the little god’s barb, eh? Molly Irons, with arms like Vulcan—”
Molly, a thickset, well-muscled blacksmith, unsurprisingly a popular fixture of the house, looked a little embarrassed at the catcalls, but preened all the same.
“—and Miss Guzzle herself, Susie Crimson. Who has to wonder what a gift’s in store here, indeed!”
Susie was a slender, unassuming young man at first glance, fair-haired and freckled, but utterly notorious for a single-minded interest, and talent. Molly offered Susie a small gift wrapped in brown paper. She tore it open, revealing a neatly wrought pair of polished shoe buckles which, judging by the shy pride in Molly’s face, she’d made herself. Somewhere among the bawdy comments and whistles, Susie looked genuinely flattered, and they smiled at each other as Julius set them palm-to-palm.
“There, now, and who first feels love’s sting? The poet says ‘Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven—’” Julius paused just long enough to glance over at Lippy with a wink. “—and a hell, / Where pleasure, pain, and sad repentance dwell.’ But what do we say? What do we say? Take the first, and damn the rest! Now, who’s next?”
The company’s laughter and applause spilled over into cheers. In the corner, Kit had wrapped his arms around Oliver’s waist and stood behind him, chin on his shoulder and soft words in his ear as they watched the festivities unfold. Ollie’s nerves appeared to be giving way to glassy-eyed wonder. Someone had brought out a fiddle and, as Julius continued with the lottery, the first drawn-out note of a folk song rang out in warning.
“Barnfield,” Lippy confided to Will, topping off both their glasses before apparently remembering it was the watered brandy they were drinking. He sneered at the decanter as he put it down, but took a sip anyway. “One of the great poets. Aside from the classics, of course.”
“Of course,” Will agreed dutifully. “I know how you cleave unto Ovid.”
“Oh, shove your claws back in, Miss Kitten. Naughty puss don’t get no cream.”
Will snorted into his glass. Such a prospect seemed distant enough anyway.
Lippy tilted his head. A question seemed to waver behind his eyes until he shook it off and touched Will’s sleeve. “Well, you’re here, at least. I confess, I’d rather hear you hissing than not hear you at all, my dear.”
Will dredged up a smile, but could find nothing to say. The brandy barely softened the taste of guilt. The fiddle sawed into his brain, and he wondered how soon he could slip away without seeming more of a churl than he already felt. Julius called the names of another set of Valentines—Sal Draper, who was here with his long-time love, Russian Mary, matched to an older man who went by Queen Hook—and Will eyed the door, intent on fixing his escape route before any dancing threatened to begin.
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Historical older man I fap to
So, I'm an American, but fuck, if a time machine existed, I'd head back to the 1770s and present myself before my historic crush, British General Charles Cornwallis, who famously surrendered to George Washington. I'd surrender to Cornwallis. Sorry George, I just find Corny much hotter. Seriously, look at the guy. That belly. Tight breeches. The artist of this portrait even painted Corny's crotch bulge for our viewing pleasure. I'd suck his imperialist cock and let him invade and colonize my little rebellious ass all day. I can just imagine him sipping a fine cup of tea in the afterglow. Hell yeah. Plus I adore military uniforms from the C18th. British being my favorite. Redcoats just give me a boner. Shit, I sound like a proper Benedict Arnold.
Ok, so on the American side, I confess I'd do Henry Knox too, another chubby cutie.
But back to Cornwallis. He had an interesting life and a successful career, long after losing to Washington, which seems to be the only thing he's remembered for. He became Governor of India, died there in 1805 aged 66 and is buried there in an elaborate tomb. Well Corny, you lost the colonies but at least you outlived GW by a few years. And over 200 years later, here I am fapping to you. Wish I could visit that tomb. As far as men from that era go, he seemed to be a pretty nice guy, judging from the two biographies I've read of him. And his descendants are alive and well to this day.
Also helps that he was portrayed by the extremely fuckable Tom Wilkinson in The Patriot.
Mmm. Rule Britannia.
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@covrroucer asked: "let's be frank and earnest. i'll be frank."
ㅤ“ Oh, very good. ” Robin laughed, easily catching the double meaning of Armand's words. This was the way of the brigands of the greenwood: a lord or lady would be robbed of all their worth before they left the forest again, with precious few exceptions, and those less lofty were expected to pay only what they could, if they were to pay anything at all. Others, even, were invited to share food and drink for a while, before they moved on again.
ㅤSuch was the scene now, with the good Armand having been stopped in his travels but Robin and the lads' weapons no longer at the ready. “ Then I shall be earnest. Tha's more than welcome, if tha'd like, to come share of us food and ale and such, afore heading off wherever it was tha were going. ”
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